Flesh Wound
by sendintheclowns
Summary: A ghoulish hunt, nightmarish weather and a secret get the best of Sam and Dean. An offering for the second round fic exchange at SFTCOLARS so angst lurks within per thursdaywench's prompt. Action takes place after AHBL.
1. Chapter 1:  The Not So Good

Summary: A ghoulish hunt, nightmarish weather and a secret get the best of Sam and Dean. An offering for the second round fic exchange at SFTCOL(AR)S so angst lurks within per thursdaywench's prompt. Action takes place after AHBL.

A/N: Look ma, no beta! The plentiful mistakes are mine, all mine.

Disclaimer: Are you going to make me say it? The characters, etc., don't belong to me. Sigh.

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**Flesh Wound**

Chapter 1: The (Not So) Good

The temperature was well above 90 degrees and it was only 8:00 a.m. The air was heavy with humidity which made breathing difficult. The local weather stations were proclaiming it an "ozone action day" with air quality in the hazardous range. It was a good day for staying indoors with air conditioning.

Unfortunately, it wasn't a good day for the Winchesters.

Dean was frantically weaving in and out of traffic in a "borrowed" Toyota Camry. He bitterly hoped it belonged to the doctor who had treated him at the hospital.

He'd just liberated himself from St. Luke's ER after spending half the night under observation for a concussion. The kicker being that it was possibly the mildest concussion he'd ever suffered but the ER doctor had insisted he stay and had even gone so far as to post a security guard outside of his cubicle.

His pupils were equal and reactive to light and the x-rays had been negative yet the doctor wouldn't sign Dean's release papers. It had taken a while for the dizziness to pass before he could slip out the second floor window and find a car. He'd wanted to leave as soon as he woke up but he couldn't risk falling and injuring himself further because he was the only one who knew Sam was in danger.

They'd been on opposite sides of the cemetery, trying to flush out the ghoul, when Dean had been surprised from behind. What was embarrassing was that he didn't think it had been the ghoul that had snuck up on him – he thought it was a spirit. A seemingly benevolent spirit that had called out a warning before shoving him to the side. Dean had smacked his head on a tombstone and had woken up in the ER. He was told that some teenagers had found him and called 911.

Damn do-gooders. By calling an ambulance, Sam had been left unprotected at the cemetery for six hours and Dean hadn't been able to raise him on the cell phone. At first he'd been hoping it was due to poor cell reception but that was no longer the case; his calls to his brother were going unanswered.

He parked the Toyota a couple of rows up from the Impala, behind some trees and shrubs. He didn't want it to be spotted too quickly but he didn't have the time to hide it better. He needed to find his brother.

He took off at a fast jog toward Sam's last known position, his cell phone on automatic re-dial. If Sam couldn't answer the phone, maybe Dean would get lucky and hear it ringing.

He didn't want to dwell on the implications of why Sam wasn't answering his phone. It was too much to contemplate. Especially on the heels of Sam's death at Jake's hand followed by his resurrection.

Sam had been devoting way too much energy toward finding a way to save Dean. Skipping meals, guzzling far too many caffeinated beverages, logging insane amounts of time on the internet, never cracking a smile…the list could go on and on.

And the nightmares were back. Sam wouldn't say what they were about but when he did finally get some sleep, which wasn't nearly enough, he would jerk awake with a scream on his lips.

Dean had a vested interest in Sam finding a way to save him but he needed to focus Sam's energy on something else, just for a little while. He didn't want his kid brother going bonkers.

He thought he'd found the perfect solution when he's stumbled upon a ghoul in the next town over from where they were staying. Ah, yes, ghouls...usually flesh eaters of new corpses but they had been known to feed on human children, infants, and occasionally weak and sickened adults.

Sam had agreed that they needed to destroy the ghoul – it had already feasted on a tired, unsuspecting traveler. It appealed to his need to protect and serve.

Dean was interested in the hunt because destroying a ghoul involved burning, decapitating, obliterating via concentrated acid or electrocution. A veritable smorgasbord of Dean's favorite activities. He could barely contain his excitement.

They had gone to the cemetery and separated to draw the ghoul out. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, Sam had even agreed to it, but then Casper the Friendly Ghost had intervened and now Sam was missing.

Dean took a moment to compose himself. Ghouls didn't like daylight so Sam would no longer be in danger from it. Maybe the same spirit that had pushed Dean aside had pulled the same trick on Sam and he was even now lying next to some marker, unconscious, waiting for Dean to find him. He began pacing the rows of graves looking for him, periodically trying his cell phone. He didn't want the batteries to run down.

Sweat was dripping down between Dean's shoulder blades, pooling in the middle of his back. He impatiently swiped the wetness out of his eyes, cursing the weather. He doubled back toward the car. He needed water or he would pass out. At the moment he didn't care about his own well being except as it related to Sam – if he was unconscious, he couldn't find his brother.

Dean kept at it for four straight hours. He'd covered maybe half of the massive cemetery and still hadn't seen any sign of Sam. His own cell phone battery was dipping dangerously low but he decided to try his brother one more time before heading back to the Impala to recharge it. Unless he stumbled over Sam, the cell phone was his best chance of tracking him down.

The phone rang five times and Dean was certain it was going into voicemail yet again when it abruptly stopped ringing. "Sammy? Can you hear me?" he called impatiently into the phone.

He listened for some response, some sign that Sam was alive, and was rewarded when he heard his brother's voice. "Dean?" It was weak and hoarse but unmistakably Sam.

Now that he knew his brother was alive, Dean's fear turned to anger. "Where the hell have you been and why haven't you been answering your cell phone?!" It was actually shorthand for _I'm coming to get you, are you okay?_

Sam was unaffected by Dean's hostile tone and answered the unspoken question. "I'm okay. I got shoved into a mausoleum and I'm stuck." Sam's voice was soft and he ended the sentence by coughing harshly. He might be conscious but Dean doubted he was completely okay.

Dean couldn't get to his brother quick enough. "Which mausoleum? There are like a hundred of them" he said, clearly frustrated as he spun around and located the area where the majority of them were located.

Sam coughed again before he answered. "I remember seeing a marker with Smith on it," he said, wheezing.

Dean closed his eyes in disbelief. "You're kidding, right? Smith. That's like the most popular name. That's just great." He stood up and started moving toward the part of the cemetery with the commemorative stone buildings.

Sam laughed a little at that before the wheezing became more pronounced. "Look for S-M-Y-T-H-E." His answer was clipped but he'd laughed. How bad off could he be?

Dean's cell phone beeped, indicating that the cell battery was on its last legs. "I need to hang up now, okay Sammy? Don't worry, I'm going to get you out," he promised.

"I know Dean. Thanks," Sam disconnected the call before Dean could say anything further. Dean was a little miffed because he wanted to hear Sam talk more, to reassure him that he was okay. But he might still need the cell phone so Sam had done the right thing.

He put the cell phone in his pocket and started hustling by the mausoleums, hunting for Smythe, occasionally calling his brother's name. His head ached from the concussion and his lungs ached from the hot, heavy air but he forced himself on. Sam was counting on him.

Sam was also having a difficult time drawing air into his lungs. The air inside of the small stone building was like an oven and Sam was slowly baking inside of it. His back was up against something hard and he rested his head against his bent knees.

Sam tried to remember what had led to this situation. He'd been patrolling the south end of the cemetery when he'd noticed a strange light coming from the west side. Ghouls didn't like the light but he needed to check it out.

He'd approached the area cautiously and paused when the light disappeared. He'd been on the verge of calling Dean when he'd felt a sharp shove in the middle of his back which had sent him flying forward. His forehead had cracked into something and he saw stars. He felt a tug on his left hand and then thought he heard someone, or something, screeching before he passed out.

The next thing he remembered was waking up in this hothouse, his cell phone ringing, his head aching.

He'd tried to catalogue his injuries but other than assorted scrapes and bruises, including a sore hand, his head and the inability to breathe in the stifling air were the main concerns.

He needed to stay alert so he could either answer the phone or call his brother's name.

His head was spinning and bile perched at the back of his throat. He thought he heard Dean calling him but he couldn't call out, couldn't even lift his head. He was powerless to move. Without water and a way to cool down, he gave in to the heat, tipping over onto his side in a sprawl.

It was well into the afternoon, around 3:00 p.m., when Dean finally hit pay dirt. He'd dialed Sam up and was disheartened when his brother didn't pick up but he heard a faint ring. He called his brother again on the cell phone, trudging along, trying to pinpoint where the ringing was coming from while reading inscriptions.

He was wondering what kind of condition his brother would be in, almost to the point of panic, so that he'd almost missed the name. The Smythes.

He called Sam's name but didn't get a response. There was a shovel wedged against another grave preventing the entrance from swinging open. Dean made short work of removing it and tugged the door open.

The afternoon light filtered into the dark tomb, pooling across his brother's limp body.

If Dean hadn't known any better, he would have thought Sam was taking a nap, stretched out on his right side, his head nestled on his arm. But Dean did know better as he scrambled into the suffocating stillness of the superheated enclosure.

Crouching down in the cramped area, he touched Sam's chest. He finally felt the shallow, delayed breaths of overworked lungs stuttering as they pulled in air.

Dean shook his head, numb with relief. Then he got down to business as he carefully placed an arm under Sam's back and another under his legs. Scooping him awkwardly into his arms, he staggered out into the sultry, summer air. His baby brother was way too big to be held in this fashion but Dean didn't care. If he got a hernia, so be it. His brother needed him and that's all that mattered.

Collapsing to the ground on his abused knees, Dean lowered his burden to the brown, dead grass. He expertly assessed Sam for obvious injuries, noting the bruising on his forehead. Dampening a bandana with some water, he drew it over Sam's face and neck, shielding his brother's body from the sun with his own.

Sam's eyes lazily blinked open and his lips twitched into a sluggish smile.

Dean's face lit up with an answering smile. His brother was alive and conscious. But he needed to act fast if he was going to stay that way.

Cupping a hand behind Sam's head he lifted it while dribbling some of the water into his mouth. Sam coughed some of the water up, splashing the life saving liquid onto the ground, his eyes closing involuntarily, before he was able to keep some of it down.

Dean stood up to figure out where the Impala was parked and was stunned to find that it was twenty yards away from their present position. Incredible. He'd walked all over the cemetery looking for his missing brother and he'd been within a stone's throw of the starting point all along.

Sam's eyes were open again, staring at Dean. "Do you think you can stand up if I help you?" he asked, concerned eyes running over Sam's wan complexion. Dean could feel the heat rising off of his own face, red from the heat, but all color had been bleached from Sam's face. Except for his brother's large, trusting eyes.

Sam nodded his head and held out his hands. Dean didn't think his brother would remain upright for long and instead moved until he was directly behind him, sliding his hands under Sam's armpits. He hoisted him up, much like he used to hold Sam when he was lifting him into the air at playtime. But this time there was no play involved.

He pulled Sam to his feet in one smooth motion and steadied him from behind while his brother got accustomed to being on his feet. Once he was certain Sam wouldn't pass out again, he moved next to him, slinging his brother's right arm over his left shoulder, anchoring it with his right hand, while snaking his left arm around his waist.

Sam's gait was unsteady and Dean was doing all of the work by the time they made it to the Impala, supporting and dragging his brother's weight.

Dean had an important decision to make. He didn't like playing Russian roulette with Sam's health but he was afraid that on the heels of Dean's treatment, the FBI would make the connection and track them down.

He situated Sam in the passenger seat, slowly giving him more water and dampening the bandana again, before heading for their motel room as he opted for trying to treat the heat exhaustion himself.

He knew from past experience that the symptoms -- dizziness, nausea and weakness -- were caused by depletion of body fluids and electrolytes so he just needed to get lots of liquid into Sam and cool his core body temperature.

Glancing at Sam, wilted across the passenger seat, he hoped he was making the right decision. Sam was counting on him.

TBC

A/N 2: I heartily suggest you check out "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff" by JJ Phoenix if you haven't already. I wasn't trying to copy this amazing story but the weather here was awful and it worked with the plot.


	2. Chapter 2:  The Bad

A/N: All notes and disclaimers from Chapter 1 are still in force. If you're reading this story, thank you. If you left me a review, that goes double.

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**Flesh Wound**

Chapter 2: The Bad...

Getting Sam into the motel room proved to be a replay of getting him into the Impala. Dean tugged his brother's slack limbs out of the passenger seat and pulled him out into the stifling air. Sam couldn't even hold his head up so it came as no surprise when Dean had to do the heavy lifting again.

It was like helping an extremely drunk person with no control move from the car to the motel room. There was lots of weaving and bobbing and tripping of legs but Dean finally managed to get Sam inside and deposited on a bed.

Sam was just holding on to consciousness, his eyes open mere slits, as he watched Dean dart around the small room. Dean was heartened by this but it didn't mean his brother was out of the woods yet. He hadn't spoken or moved since Dean had let him drop awkwardly onto the bed. Not good.

Dean threw a towel in to soak under the coldest water the tap could produce while clumsily stripping Sam out of his shirt. Make that shirts. The kid took layering to the next level.

He also took lethargy to the next level; his arms and head flopped around as Dean maneuvered his clothes off.

Dean wrung the towel out a bit before taking it back to his brother. Pulling Sam forward he wrapped the cool, wet towel around his brother's torso, making sure it was under his armpits and behind his neck.

Next he grabbed a bottle of barely cool water out of the sad excuse for a refrigerator that stood in the tiny kitchenette. Uncapping it with unsteady fingers he supported Sam's head with one hand while dribbling water into his mouth. Sam's eyes fluttered shut while he convulsively swallowed.

Not wanting to make his brother sick, Dean withdrew the bottle from his lips and settled his head back onto the bed. Reaching out, he pushed Sam's bangs to the side and got a good look at the bruise marring the center of his forehead.

"Sammy, you with me?" He knew the heat had sucked the energy out of his brother but now he worried there was a head injury in play as well.

Sam's eyes blinked opened and he groggily focused on Dean's face. His right hand jerked up and latched onto Dean's arm, squeezing it once before letting it flop down.

Dean took this as a sign of improvement. "Listen, I'm going down to the office to get some ice. Just lay there, okay?"

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother in acknowledgement. Apparently Sam realized he didn't have the energy to go anywhere under his own steam. But then again, Sam had managed to do some stunningly stupid things in his time. Like vanishing into thin air at the hands of the hillbilly Benders.

Grabbing the plastic ice bucket provided by the cheap motel as well as a plastic trash bag purloined from the bathroom, Dean barreled out of the room, intent on bringing back ice. The moist, sweltering air hit him like a hammer and he staggered sideways, throwing a hand out to steady himself against the wall. He shook his head to clear it and forced himself down the sidewalk toward the office. He would just have to suck it up. Sam needed him.

Enduring the nasty looks from the clerk, Dean practically cleaned out the ice machine. Next he plugged money into the vending machine and selected sports drink after sports drink. Collecting the goods in his arms, he threw a half hearted salute at the clerk and staggered back to Sam.

His brother hadn't moved.

Dean stowed the drinks in the rickety refrigerator and the ice in the sink. Next he started drawing cool water in the tub. He needed to get Sam's temperature down before his brain and other organs sizzled.

Dean grabbed the open water bottle and chugged it down, perching on the edge of Sam's bed. He was seeing spots in front of his eyes and he couldn't afford to pass out now. He had to get Sam into the tub.

After a moment the light headedness passed and he stood up to tug his brother's jeans off of him. Sam lay passively on the bed, neither helping nor hindering the process. At last Dean had him down to his boxers.

He was ready to get Sam to the tub but he had a problem. He didn't know if he had the strength. The concussion and heat were making his head spin and he felt sick to his stomach.

Grasping Sam's jaw in one hand he lightly tapped his cheek. "Sam, I need a little help here." He could feel the heat coming off his brother's face in waves as he tried to rouse him. He relaxed a little when Sam's eyelashes fluttered open and he was staring into a pair of very confused, bloodshot eyes.

Sam swallowed and then looked around the room before his glance settled on Dean's frowning face. "Wha…" he coughed a little and then tried again. "What do you need me to do?"

Dean didn't think Sam even knew what zip code he was in at the moment but he had responded to Dean's request for help. _Way to go, Sammy_.

Dean put an arm around Sam's back and lifted him into a sitting position. He could feel his brother slump against his shoulder. "Come on, Sam. I need your help." It wasn't hard to inject a tone of pleading into his voice. He really needed to cool Sam off. Now.

Sam straightened a little and picked up his head. Slipping an arm around Sam's waist he hoisted him back to his feet, throwing an arm over his shoulder in the process.

This time Sam was able to stand under his own power and Dean quickly propelled him into the small bathroom and perched him on the edge of the chipped and stained tub. Before Sam could protest, Dean swiveled his brother's feet into the tub and slid him into the cool water.

Sam immediately tried to pull himself up. "No…" It bothered Dean to physically restrain Sam but he didn't have a choice. His brother was combative, striking out in confusion or discomfort. He firmly pressed down on his brother's shoulders until he quit struggling.

After propping Sam against the back of the tub, Dean turned to the sink and retrieved a bucket full of ice, dropping it into the water. He hoped the temperature wouldn't be too much of a shock to Sam's system but he could still feel the fever raging in his brother's body.

As the ice hit the water, Sam began to struggle again. "No," he cried weakly again, twisting his head from side to side.

Dean sat on the edge of the tub and, dipping a washcloth into the cool water, began to bathe his brother's face. "Shhh, Sam, it's okay," he soothed.

Sam's lower lip was jutting out, even quivering a little, and his eyes were full of tears. Now didn't this just take Dean back to their childhood? Bathing a reluctant, teary, Sam.

It was funny how when Sam was little he hated the combination of soap and water but as an adult he gave new meaning to the term clean freak. Sometimes he couldn't get Sam out of the shower to save his life.

He shook the musings from his head as he took stock of his brother. Sam was no longer thrashing around, trying to avoid the cloth. Dean took advantage of the moment to sluice water over Sam's head and back, further cleaning and cooling him.

Next Dean soaped up the cloth and began to clean the various scrapes and abrasions dotting Sam's arms and legs. He still wasn't sure how Sam had ended up inside of the mausoleum but it looked like he'd had quite a time of it if his assorted bruises and marks were anything to go by.

Certain that Sam was cool, clean and disinfected, he closed his eyes for a moment. He wanted nothing more than to climb into a nice, cooling shower. Then he wanted ice water. Lastly he wanted to fall into bed and sleep as long as his body would allow. His head ached and he was exhausted. But all of this would have to wait. First he needed to re-hydrate his brother.

Using the edge of the tub, he pulled himself up before slowly making his way toward the tiny refrigerator. He pulled out a couple of the urine colored sports drinks and returned to Sam.

Dean sat back down on the edge of the tub and stared at Sam's face. His brother looked peaceful. His dark, wet, spiky lashes lay against pale cheeks. His breathing was deep and even. Dean hated to disturb him but what Sam needed most at the moment was to take in fluids.

Reaching forward, Dean pushed Sam's hair out of his face. "Hey, Sam, time for more liquid," Dean said.

Without opening his eyes, Sam shivered lightly before answering. "I've got enough liquid here, thanks." He skimmed his hand across the surface of the water, managing to catch Dean in the face with spray.

A smile broke across Dean's face as he wiped his face across an arm to blot the water. His brother's voice was cracked and hoarse but there was no mistaking his dry sense of humor and timing. Sam was back amongst the living.

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Their body temperatures returned to normal allowing the brothers to doze off. Their bodies needed the sleep to recuperate from their time in the brutally hot elements.

It was going on 10:00 p.m. when Dean was awakened out of a sound sleep. He lay completely still as he scanned the room for trouble. He relaxed as he realized what had disrupted his shuteye.

Sam was dreaming again. Actually, it was more like a nightmare and it sounded like a whopper.

Gazing uncertainly at his brother, Dean knew he needed to get up and head back to the cemetery. They couldn't leave the ghoul to wander the area, picking off defenseless, lost people or digging up the bodies of the newly buried. The ghoul had to be put down and Sam was in no condition for the job so he would have to do it himself.

Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he clicked on the lamp sitting on his bedside table. He stood up and stretched, pleased that the dizziness and headache had faded. He could finish the ghoul on his own but he really didn't want to leave Sam alone in the room. He didn't want to let Sam out of his sight.

It was a response he'd been having more and more lately. Ever since Sam had collapsed and died in his arms.

He turned and watched his brother as he mewled in distress.

_Sam was back at the cemetery. He zig zagged through the monuments, ricocheting off of them as he turned his head to gage the distance between himself and the ghoul. _

_No matter how hard he ran, how fast he sprinted, he couldn't escape the long arms and sinewy legs of the ghoul. It was pounding behind him. _

_Every time he turned around he saw its bulging eyes set against its thick, fibrous blue-gray skin. A dull clacking sound filled the air as its razor sharp teeth snapped together, growing ever closer to Sam. _

_Sam knew Dean was right around the corner. Dean would save him. He just needed to get to his older brother. To his sanctuary. _

_Right as he sped around the corner, sharp, claw-like hands dug into his left hand and he found himself sailing through the air. He cried out as he landed on his back, winded, cradling his hand to his chest. _

_He'd been scratched by the ghoul. His fate was sealed. He groaned as he realized Dean's deal had been for naught. He wouldn't live out the week. He…_

He was shaken roughly. "Come on, Sam. Snap out of it! It's just a dream." Dean's calming presence infiltrated his dream as Sam struggled to open his eyes.

Sam located his brother standing next to his bed as he shaded his eyes, trying to screen out the bright light blazing across the room.

"Dean?" His voice was muzzy and he hated it, but he couldn't seem to pull himself together.

Dean patted him on the shoulder before moving across the room. "That was some dream you were having. You okay?"

Sam hated being vulnerable. But the dregs of his nightmare seeped back into his consciousness and he shuddered violently, betraying his current state.

His left hand throbbed where the ghoul had scratched him.

But, wait. The ghoul hadn't scratched him. That was a dream.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and watched as Dean tugged on a pair of jeans. "What are you doing?" he asked, bewildered as he noticed the time.

Dean pulled his boots on and started rifling through his gear. "I need to finish this hunt. And you need to get some rest."

Sam stumbled to his feet. He knew the ghoul needed to be dealt with but there was no way he was letting Dean return to the cemetery by himself. "I'm coming with you."

Dean snorted while he transferred some weapons into a backpack. "Sam, please. You can barely stand up. Hell, two hours ago I thought you still needed a hospital. There's no way in hell I'm letting anything happen to you."

And therein lay the problem. Dean was determined to protect Sam at all costs. But there were some things that defied even the love and determination of an older brother.

Shaking his head, Sam gingerly made his way over to a discarded pair of jeans on the floor. Drawing them on slowly, disgusted at the grime and dirt caked on the denim, he got himself ready.

He probably couldn't do much to help with the actual hunt but he could act as lookout. Or decoy. But there was no way Dean was going back to the cemetery without him. "Dean, please. I'm going with you. It's not negotiable." He crossed his arms with finality and willed Dean to give in.

Dean threw his hands up in resignation. Sam had won this battle but the war was looming up ahead.

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Sam dozed in the moonlight. He had been sitting on the hood of the Impala but his eyes had grown heavy and he'd leaned back, trying to find a comfortable position. He'd promised his brother he wouldn't move from this spot.

One moment he was thinking about the comfortable bed in the motel room and the next he was thrust back into his nightmare world of dodging the ghoul.

He heard gunshot and the panicked voice of Dean. "Sammy, move your ass!"

That was new. Last time he dreamed about the ghoul he'd been trying to get to Dean but this time Dean was right in the thick of things.

Or was he dreaming? His eyes snapped open and darted around wildly. He heard a commotion to his left and saw the ghoul, disjointed and lumbering, headed straight for the Impala. Straight for him.

He rolled to his right and dropped off the hood of the car. He heard Dean give a Comanche style scream and then something whistled through the air. A soft squish and dull thud followed.

The decapitated head of the ghoul rolled across the uneven ground, stopping in front of Sam who was crouched down beside the Impala. Its dulled eyes stared unblinkingly at him, its mouth pulled back in a rictus that mocked him, teeth gleaming dully in the moonlight.

Dean suddenly filled his vision. "Sammy?!" Strong arms hauled him upright and back away from the ghoul's head. "Hey, are you okay?"

Sam nodded mutely, leaning forward into Dean's arms for a moment before stepping away from his brother. He couldn't lean on Dean forever.

His gaze was drawn back to the ghoul's head, locking onto the eyes of the dead ghoul. He rubbed his throbbing left hand before leaning against the car as dizziness caught up to him.

Dean was back in his personal space, shining a light in his face. "Jesus, you scared the crap out of me. It ran right for you. Almost like you were a homing beacon or something. Weird."

The ghoul had run to him as though they had some sort of connection. Sam's hand itched and ached. Was there a connection?

He couldn't sort it all out. His head hurt and he was having trouble breathing in the humid air again. "Come on, let's get you into the car. I knew I shouldn't have let you come along." Dean's strong, competent hands settled him inside the Impala.

Dean's voice faded to muttering as Sam relaxed in the passenger seat. He watched though drooping eyes as Dean first salted and then burned the body and head of the ghoul.

A light flared behind Dean and he sat up straight and started to call out a warning. The outline of a young boy became visible, hand waving goodbye, before it faded from his vision. Another spirit laid to rest.

Was this the spirit who had helped save him and Dean from the ghoul? He didn't know and he didn't have the energy to figure it out.

If the ghoul was gone, why did he feel so unsettled about it? He drifted off to sleep, confused and uncomfortable.

-----

It has been a few days since he'd decapitated the ghoul and Dean was getting itchy for some action.

He was flirting with taking a job in East Tennessee. He'd done the research himself and thought the trip, although out of their way, was worth it.

From the sounds of it, a small community was being terrorized by a Wampus cat. According to legend, a Cherokee woman had disguised herself in the skin of a mountain lion to spy on the men of the tribe but when the woman was discovered, the tribe's medicine man had turned her into a half-woman, half-cat. The description of a six legged cat roaming the hills around the town matched the information surrounding the Wampus cat folklore.

It should have been an easy decision. Go in, consecrate the grounds and reverse the transformation, and get out. No one gets hurt, the poor Cherokee woman would be put to rest and the community would be grateful.

Except for one fly in the ointment. Sam. He just wasn't rebounding from his bout of heat exhaustion, in Dean's opinion. He was going to let Sam take it easy today and then see how he was doing.

In the meantime the brothers were relaxing in a little bed and breakfast. They'd gotten in yesterday evening and were going to stay at least another night before heading off to their next gig.

It was the off season so the brothers could cheaply afford to stay _en suite_. Dean thought _en suite_ was French for pretentious but it meant the brothers each had their own bedroom with a shared bath.

And what a bedroom it was...a king sized brass bed with a lace canopy was the focal point with a set of brightly flowered wing backed chairs stationed next to a massive stone fireplace. Matching floral curtains completed the effect of girlish romance. Sam's room wasn't much different although plaid was the theme instead of flowers.

Despite the overblown accomodations, Dean normally would have been ecstatic about this turn of events – a little privacy now and then was welcome -- but it meant he couldn't keep close tabs on Sam. At least not the way he wanted to. Instead he was forced to come up with reasons to do stuff just so he could keep an eye on his brother.

Last night he'd dragged Sam downstairs where they had endured a game of twenty questions from their perky hostess, Carrie. She offered them each a long necked beer, brewed locally, and Dean certainly thought he deserved one after the last forty–eight hours. He'd even relaxed enough to lightly flirt with the buxom redhead until he noticed Sam nodding off in his beer.

Sam's head had been leaning against the back of the loveseat, his eyes drooping, left leg bent with heel resting on his right knee. Dean couldn't remember the last time Sam had looked so relaxed and had let him doze.

Dean wiled away some time, chatting effortlessly with Carrie, until the hand gripping the beer had also relaxed in sync with the rest of Sam's body. The bottle, planted on his thigh, tilted further to the side with each breath Sam took, threatening to spill its contents across his body as well as the furniture and hardwood floor. That was when Dean had called it a night and dragged his exhausted brother upstairs.

Now it was 7:00 a.m. and Dean hadn't heard Sam, who usually rose with the sun, stirring yet. Dean had already showered and was debating on whether he should go down to breakfast by himself and let Sam sleep in or rouse his brother.

Something was nagging at him and he wanted to make sure his brother was okay before he left him alone. Something about being separated from him was making him antsy. Putting his ear up to the door he listened one last time for movement within before lifting his hand and knocking. "Sammy, time to rise and shine!" he called.

He waited, listening. Nothing. "Sammy?!"

Dean was ready to bust the door in but at the last moment tried the knob – it was open. He burst into the room and thanks to the light spilling in from the half opened plaid drapes he quickly located his brother.

Sam was lying on his back, his head turned to the side with his right hand nestled under his right cheek.

His brother looked young and innocent in repose. Almost angelic.

But he still wasn't stirring despite the commotion of Dean coming into his room uninvited.

There was something else that was vaguely disturbing. Sam was sleeping on his back. He was a stomach or side sleeper. He only slept on his back when he was taking a nap or sick.

His brother was a little pale but was breathing deeply and evenly. Trying to control his anxiety, he leaned over his brother and tried to wake him again. "Sam, are you okay?"

Still no response. Dean's heart picked up its pace as he sat on the edge of Sam's bed. He saw eyes frantically darting behind closed lids. Leaning over he took a bicep in each hand and gave his brother a shake. "Sammy, man, come on. You're scaring me here."

His actions were rewarded when Sam slowly blinked his eyes open. Dean waited a heartbeat so as not to startle his brother. Sam had that rumpled, sleepy look on his face – he didn't seem to be aware of where he was or even that Dean was in the room with him. More cause for concern.

Dean sat back and watched his brother bring his right fist to his eye and rub it like a toddler does when fighting sleep. Sam still looked dazed and concerned, frowning a little as he blinked his eyes some more.

Dean gently grabbed the hand that had been sluggishly rubbing the eye. "Hey, what's going on?" he asked quietly, still trying not to startle his brother but wondering what was going on with him.

Four months ago he would have been appalled at his own behavior. Holding hands like some sissy with his brother. But ever since he'd cradled a dying Sam in his arms, he'd found that his cavalier veneer had cracked in regard to his baby brother. And right now he needed something tangible to hold on to and that something was his brother's hand

Sam finally was coherent enough to string a thought together. "Dean?" His voice was soft and husky and definitely held a tone of bewilderment.

Dean cracked a smile. It was a start. "In the flesh." He waited to see if Sam would make any other connections. Maybe Sam had suffered a head injury of some kind after all.

Sam pulled his hand awkwardly away from Dean before weakly stretching his arms overhead. Perching on his forearms he squinted at Dean and then the clock at the wall. "What's going on?"

Dean looked searchingly at this brother's face. His pupils seemed too large but there was only partial light in the room.

Not wanting to be accused of smothering Sam with concern, he forced himself to relax. "It's time for breakfast but you didn't answer my knock. Late night?" He was trying to play it cool. He didn't want to freak his brother out but he wanted some answers.

Sam pushed himself into a sitting position and closed his eyes for a moment. "I was dreaming, I guess."

The little color he had was blanched away. "Dizzy?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head no, not wanting to worry his brother. The room was spinning around lazily but he knew from experience it would soon stop.

He'd had another dream. It had seemed so real and now he was having a hard time throwing off its effects. Same song, different verse.

_He'd been chased by the ghoul and trapped in a corner, forced to make a last stand. If he was going down he was determined to take the ghoul out with him. He was a Winchester after all. Before he could deliver the killing thrust, the ghoul had caught him by the hand and taken a chomp out of it and…_

That's when he'd become aware of Dean in his room.

He surreptitiously pulled back his long sleeved t-shirt to get a look at his left hand. There was a mark on his hand, red and startling in its rawness.

Sam squinted to get a better look but he guiltily turned his head away when Dean asked him if he was ready for breakfast.

Sam forced a facsimile of a smile across his lips. He wasn't hungry. He hadn't been hungry since he'd found out Dean had traded his soul for Sam's life. A life Sam wasn't even sure was worth saving.

He knew something fundamental had changed in him. He could trace it back to Jake's death. If he was honest, he could trace it a little farther back – to when he'd been brought back from the dead.

Periods of rage sometimes overwhelmed him but he couldn't bring himself to talk to his brother about it. Dean wasn't sorry he'd brought Sam back and not wanting to force an argument, he let the subject drop. Time was too precious to waste.

He couldn't blame Dean, not really. He even suspected he might have considered the same thing if their positions had been reversed. But that didn't stop him from worrying. What if he was going dark side? Dean's safety could be at risk.

But in nine months the hellhounds would come to collect on Dean's bargain so Sam had his work cut out for him. The clock was ticking and he needed to find a solution to his brother's problem.

Clearing his throat, Sam answered in the affirmative about breakfast. He needed to pull himself together and act normal. He was awake enough to know that Dean was concerned about him. That was a pattern he needed to break. For Dean's sake.

He winced as he put weight on his sore hand as he pushed out of bed. Maybe he should say something to his brother about the wound. He discarded the idea, not wanting to add to his brother's burden. Hadn't Dean already given up everything, including his very soul, for Sam?

TBC


	3. Chapter 3:  And The Ugly

A/N 1: I'd like to thank Faye Dartmouth for a down-to-the-wire plotting session. I had another big assist from CZ who did some last minute trouble shooting and dialogue coaching. My vision for the story was a bit more convoluted so I thank these lovely ladies for putting me back on track.

-----

Chapter 3: And the Ugly…

Dean shook his head in exasperation while dragging a hand through his short, blond hair. The luxurious surroundings of the bed and breakfast, including a comfortable bed with froufrou lace, might be more upscale than the usual places they stayed while on the road but Sam wasn't taking advantage of it.

His little brother needed to stop and smell the coffee. Or was it stop and smell the roses? It didn't matter what he smelled because the facts remained unchanged – Sam was at it again, pouring all of his energy into finding a solution to Dean's problem, when he should have been relaxing.

Dean watched covertly from across the room at his brother's head bent awkwardly over the laptop and his fingers flew over the keyboard.

He couldn't put his finger on it, but something was different about Sam. The insomnia followed by nightmares was nothing new. The lack of appetite and gloominess wasn't a change either. Ever since Sam had been stranded in the mausoleum, his behavior was off. It was subtle, but Dean could see something was wrong.

Lurking just below the surface was an added layer of desperation. Dean felt certain he recognized it because it was something he had first hand experience with.

He was definitely stressed out over his future. It wasn't that he wanted to go to hell but he had sort of made his peace with it. After all, Sam was living and breathing again and that's what mattered the most. He'd done his job; he'd saved his brother.

His feelings of hopelessness centered on what would happen to Sam when (if?) the Crossroads Demon came to collect. Number one, he wouldn't have his brother's back -- a back which attracted trouble without even trying. And second, he feared for his brother's sanity. If Sam was slowly driving himself bat-shit crazy now...he didn't want to think what Sam would be like if Dean had to pay the piper.

Actually, Dean knew exactly how it felt since he'd gone through it while Sam's muscles had first stiffened with and then relaxed through the stages of rigor mortis. He hadn't handled things well. Not at all. He didn't wish that on Sam for anything.

Dean's attention was drawn back to his brother as he absently scratched at his hand. The kid was always dressed in long sleeves these days, despite the warm weather, his hands disappearing beneath the cuffs. Between that and his unruly, ragged hair, Sam was an unkempt mess. He was a far cry from the clean cut brother he'd spirited away from Stanford to help in his search for their father.

Sam could feel Dean's eyes on him. Again. It made him uncomfortable to be the focus of Dean's attention like that. It really shouldn't surprise him, though, because Dean was always looking out for him, even when he pretended not to be.

Sam was frustrated. Another lead had fallen through and Sam was trying to hold on to his faith. He knew there was a way to save Dean; he just needed to be patient and find it.

He didn't want to admit it but he needed a break from the Crossroads Demon. Maybe he would search the Oakwood Cemetery, former home of the ghoul. The Sam of old would have already searched for information on the boyish apparition waving goodbye to him. Was he connected with the ghoul? Why did he intervene and try to save their lives?

He discarded that idea, unable to work up any enthusiasm for it. He didn't have time for anything except his brother. Although he was beginning to wonder if he would be around to help Dean through this latest crisis.

He found himself searching out information on the ghoul instead. It had been four days since Dean had found him in the mausoleum and he had some concerns about whether he'd been "touched" by the ghoul before he'd been shoved into the small enclosure with the remains of The Smythes.

Touched. An inaccurate euphemism but he couldn't even bring himself to even think the words circling around his brain – scratched or bitten. Both, when delivered by a ghoul, were a surefire death sentence.

Although according to the website he was looking at now, if the ghoul had "touched" him, he'd soon be suffering from respiratory distress followed by complete organ failure. Wasn't that a cheery thought? Not exactly the way he thought he'd go out but there was no cure for it so there wasn't a damn thing he could do.

Except find a way to save Dean. Not in nine months or next week. Right now.

He didn't consider himself a hypochondriac but with every ache and twinge he became worried that he was sickening from the ghoul's touch. Hot and feverish one moment, chilled the next – it was like having a case of the flu that never fully developed.

His hand was really bothering him and despite distracting himself with the multitude of search engines at his disposal, he couldn't quit picking at it. He pulled the sleeve farther down to cover it and tried unsuccessfully to ignore its presence.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and flinched. His mind must be playing tricks on him. He thought he'd seen a shadow lumbering into the corner of the spacious room. His heart thundered loudly in his ears. For a moment he thought the ghoul was right here, in the room with them. But he'd watched as his brother salted and burned the decapitated remains of the ghoul two states over.

He ground the heel of his right hand into an eye and sighed. When Dean shot him a look, deeply frowning, he forced his lips upward in a parody of a smile.

He didn't want to bother Dean with his nonsense. If the ghoul had gotten him then there was nothing to be done about it and if that wasn't the case then he was just being paranoid – he wasn't going to upset Dean for no good reason. His brother didn't deserve that. Not from him.

After all, keeping things quiet seemed to be a Winchester family tradition.

-----

Dean didn't know how to shake Sam out of his malaise so he'd opted for packing his brother up the next day and heading back out on the hard road. He always found peace behind the wheel of the Impala. This car and his brother were all he had left. They were his home.

He glanced at his brother and took in the slumped posture and pinched features. _Sammy, Sammy, Sammy…what am I going to do with you?_

Dean was humming softly, trying to distract himself from staring at Sam again. He knew he made Sam uncomfortable but his brother wasn't okay. Or fine. Or whatever lie he was trying to pass off to explain away his moroseness.

Dean focused on the car ahead of him. The traffic was a bitch, barely climbing up the slope of the bridge, but it was rush hour. Everyone was scurrying home and the Impala was trapped in the mad dash.

He'd planned on leaving earlier in the day but Sam had looked pale and drawn and although he denied feeling sick, Dean had insisted that he rest longer. For once Sam hadn't argued.

This set off all sorts of alarms in Dean's brain. Although lately, it was hard to tell the difference between Sam trying to downplay injuries or illness and his constant need to please and appease Dean.

Dean heard his brother sigh, probably trapped in unhappy thoughts again, and sought a way to distract Sam. He settled on the rain which was a new all time low…Winchesters reduced to making small talk about the weather. Although the weather sure was putting on a show at the moment. "Now that's what I call a good old fashioned gully washer, don't you think?" he asked, borrowing a phrase he'd heard their dad use before while watching the heavens open up and dump water over the road in sheets.

Sam scratched absently at his hand as the car inched up the incline toward the top of the bridge, the rain coming down in torrents. The water gushed over the pavement toward and then past the car at a dizzying rate. Sam couldn't contain the sigh that escaped his lips as the forward motion of the car against the deluge of water disoriented him.

Dean was talking to him but he missed some of what he said, mesmerized by the frantic swipe of the windshield wipers which were futile in the face of the downpour. "…what I call a …gully washer…" he heard his brother comment. Even his brother's voice sounded as if it was being filtered through the water.

He blinked his eyes and shook his head in an effort to clear the light headedness overtaking him. Unsuccessful in his bid, he instead succumbed to the whirling sensation and fatigue, passing out. His body slumped awkwardly against the passenger door with his head coming to rest on his chest.

Creeping slowly behind the car in front of him, Dean called his brother's name and chanced a glance at Sam. His heart almost stopped as he realized why there had been no response -- Sam was slumped bonelessly in the passenger seat, his head tipped forward so that his chin rested on his chest.

Was he even breathing?

Dean slammed on the brakes, fishtailing a little despite the slow speed, and threw the Impala into park heedless of the consequences. He quickly engaged the hazard lights before reaching over and tilting Sam's head back so that his airway wasn't restricted.

He could see Sam's chest moving up and down, albeit a little quickly. He skimmed his hand over Sam's face, urgently calling his sibling's name. Sam didn't rouse but he was relieved to find that his forehead wasn't hot and feverish. If anything, it was cool and clammy.

He unfastened his own seatbelt so he could lean over his brother's prone body and trigger the lever on the side of the seat so that Sam was tipped back as far as the car allowed. It was the closest he could get to elevating Sam's feet without taking the time to drag his brother into the backseat. He was tempted to do just that but it wouldn't do his brother any good if they were hit by a car while stopped in the passing lane.

Dean grabbed Sam's left hand and placed two fingers on the wrist, commanding his own heart rate to quiet so that he could concentrate on his brother's pulse. Also a little quick but nothing to become too anxious over. Yet.

He was placing Sam's hand back on his lap when he noticed something that he hadn't seen earlier. There was a quarter sized area on the back of Sam's left hand that was darkly red and swollen. Streaks of red disappeared up the arm. When Dean touched it, he felt heat pouring off of it. What the hell?

Sam had complained of a sore hand after the mausoleum incident and it had been scraped up but not like this. It had been a simple abrasion, not this infected looking mess in front of him now.

An insistent honking broke through his worry zone and with one last look at his brother, passed out and draped across the seat, he put the Impala in gear and started following the flow of traffic once again. Gliding over into the right lane, he planned to take the first exit so he could assess Sam's condition better. If he was right then Sam would need medical treatment, whether he wanted it or not.

-----

Dean followed the signs to the nearest hospital, cursing the weather and the slow drivers. He was relieved when the sign announcing Waterbury Hospital appeared through the heavy curtain of rain. He thought, distractedly, how ironic the hospital's name was in light of the current deluge outside as he splashed through the parking lot, halting the Impala right in front of the ER entrance.

Scrambling out into the downpour, Dean was quickly drenched as he sprinted toward the entrance to get help. He bolted through the doors and ran up to the desk.

The words were flowing out of him so quickly that the woman, who barely had time to acknowledge his approach, was having a hard time following the conversation. He was on the verge of grabbing her scrawny neck and dragging her outside when she finally understood the seriousness of the situation and sent a team of staff outside to help Sam.

Before Dean could pull himself together and follow, the team was crashing through the waiting room at breakneck pace. Dean's stomach dropped to his toes as a gurney with a very pale and still Sam whizzed by him. The staff called out information to each other, oblivious to anyone else in the vicinity, their expressions serious.

He could tell that Sam's condition was serious. How the hell had that gotten by him?

-----

Sam was assessed, poked and transferred to an ICU cubicle in record time. In Dean's experience, hospitals did not move with such alacrity. That alone spoke volumes about the seriousness of Sam's condition.

Somehow a simple scrape had turned into a full blown infection. Dean remembered cleaning the area out with soap while Sam cooled in the bath tub but his brother's immune system, weakened from exhaustion and poor nutrition, had provided the perfect breeding ground for some common place infection which had run amuck.

Dean still didn't understand why Sam had kept his yap shut about his hand but he intended to find out as soon as Sam was coherent.

He shifted his position in the hard, plastic chair, never taking his eyes off of his brother. The head of Sam's bed was raised and an oxygen mask was firmly placed over his nose and mouth. His left hand was smothered in gauze. When Dean leaned forward and looked closely, he could see small, pinpoint purplish red spots dotting the skin that was visible over Sam's body. The sweat clung to Sam's hair and dampened his face, a sign of the high fever that had overtaken his body.

Dean had heard the staff throw around terms such as debridement, petechiae and septic shock. A strong antibiotic was now coursing through Sam's system courtesy of an IV attached to the back of his right hand and the doctor was hopeful it would control the infection. Hopeful.

A low pitched moan from the head of the bed signaled Sam's return to consciousness. Dean jumped to his feet and hovered next to his brother's side, eager for him to open his eyes.

It was a struggle but Dean looked on while Sam blinked his bloodshot eyes open. They wandered around the room, pausing every once in a while, a deep frown of concentration crinkling his forehead.

Sam raised his right hand and brought it up to the oxygen mask, pulling ineffectually at it. Dean captured the wayward hand and patted it awkwardly before putting it back on the bed. "Leave it be, you need it."

Sam sought Dean out with glazed eyes before speaking. Feebly shrugging his right shoulder and nodding half heartedly, Sam motioned to the corner of the room. "Who's there? I can't see them?" His voice cracked with the strain of speaking.

Dean looked over his shoulder where Sam had indicated. No one was there. "It's just you and me, Sammy."

Sam looked back into the corner and then his eyes panned across the room. "But…they're…don't you see them?" The words were disjointed and the delivery painful to hear.

Dean wasn't sure what was going on with Sam but he knew hallucinations weren't a good sign. And seeing people in the room who weren't there was most likely brought on by the infection raging through Sam's body. Dean knew the cause but he didn't have to like it.

Sam looked one more time and then relaxed back into the pillow before shyly looking at Dean. "It's okay. I know them."

Dean didn't know if he should play along or not but he was curious. "You know who?"

Sam closed his eyes, exhaustion apparent in the way he lolled back against the bed. Dean thought he'd fallen asleep until he heard his brother's soft reply. "It's Caleb, Father Jim and Meg…how'd they know where to find me?" The last was breathed out on a long sigh, sleep quickly overtaking his sick brother.

Dean felt a cold fist in the pit of his stomach. Sam was seeing people who had died in the last year. An innocent and two family friends who had been caught in the cross fire of the Yellow Eyed Demon's quest for who knew exactly what. It was as clear as mud right now.

Dean settled back into the uncomfortable chair and prepared for a long vigil. He wasn't going to let anything, dead or alive, get to his brother. Not now.

-----

Over twenty-four hours later, Dean was unable to stay awake and had nodded off, his head lying on top of the sheet next to Sam's right hand, when he felt movement. Picking his head up, he expected to see a nurse bustling around the room but instead was elated when he saw Sam was awake. His brother was blinking owlishly at him but Dean swore he saw his lips twitch into a smile before Sam clutched at Dean's hand with his own.

Dean had activated the call button and within minutes everyone on the floor seemed to pour into the cubicle to assess his brother's condition. He found himself gently pushed aside. He resented it but he knew Sam needed their help so he backed down, slinking against the wall, out of their way.

After much activity, the doctor and his entourage finally left the cubicle after pronouncing that the antibiotic was taking effect. Sam's vital signs were climbing back into an acceptable range and the prognosis was good. His body was beating the infection.

It was good news all around. The staff were going to transfer Sam to a regular room for observation and it he continued to improve they would consider releasing him in the next couple of days. He would have to remain afebrile for twenty-four hours straight but waking up had been the first, crucial step in his recovery.

While the staff readied his brother for the move, Dean trudged out to the car to grab his bag. He needed to freshen up and maybe grab some coffee. As a last minute thought, he grabbed the laptop.

Dean couldn't believe how oblivious he'd been to his brother's deteriorating health. He remembered Sam scratching at his hand over the last couple of days but hadn't thought anything of it at the time. Now he wanted to smack Sam for not speaking up, for not taking care of his wounded hand. And maybe himself while he was at it, for not taking better care of his brother.

Hitting a cafe across from the hospital, Dean settled down to relax. He wanted to lay his head down and catch some z's but he didn't want to be away from Sam's side for very long. The doctors might think Sam was out of the woods but he wanted, no needed, to be with his brother.

Knowing he had a little time to kill, he took advantage of the free internet connection in the trendy cafe. He booted up the laptop and saw several emails in the inbox. None were urgent so he decided to search septicemia on the internet – that was Sam's diagnosis. Reading through the list of symptoms and outcomes, he realized his brother had dodged a bullet on this one.

Shaking with relief, he accidentally hit the history button and paused to see what had last held Sam's attention. Ghouls + bites + scratches + cure.

_What the hell?!_ Dean had taken care of the ghoul in front of Sam, so what was the fascination? He pulled it up and began reading.

Realization dawned slowly in his fatigued mind. He was up and out of his seat and halfway across the street before he realized he'd left his coffee behind. He briefly mourned the caffeine fix but it was nothing compared to the anger he felt right now.

He breezed up to Sam's floor and the nurse pointed out his brother's room, calling out that Sam was awake and asking for him. Dean smiled tightly at her as he pushed abruptly through the door.

Sam was propped up against several pillows, his eyes open and alert.

Dean slammed the laptop down on the tray table next to Sam's bed with more force than was required. "Good to see you awake, Sammy. How are you feeling?"

He could see with his own two eyes that Sam was awake but certainly in no condition to leave the hospital. The oxygen was gone but the IV remained. Dark circles ringed Sam's eyes and the stubble on his face contrasted starkly with his pasty, white skin.

He'd come very close to losing his brother and it was killing him.

Sam's smile was lop-sided and brief. "They tell me I'm on the mend and that you were with me the whole time. Thanks, Dean."

The words were heartfelt and sincere and Dean wasn't having any of it.

Dean sat down in the chair, fidgeted for a moment, and then jumped back to his feet. He couldn't stay still, his anger spurring him on. "Skip it," he snapped.

Sam's face fell but Dean didn't allow it to distract him from his goal. "Explain to me why you didn't mention that your hand was bothering you, would you?"

Sam squirmed uncomfortably against the pillows and couldn't meet Dean's eyes. "I, ah, don't know. I should have, I know. I'm sorry?"

Dean threw his hands up in the air. He was being a bit over dramatic but Sam had given him another scare that could have been totally avoided. "You're sorry. That's just great."

He paced the length of the room, Sam eyeing him warily.

Dean couldn't contain himself any longer. "Sam, for all of your college smarts, you sure are a bonehead. What were you thinking?!" The volume of Dean's voice rose with each syllable he delivered. "Why didn't you tell me about the SCRATCH OR BITE FROM THE GHOUL?!"

Dean's head snapped around to make sure no one had heard his rant. If he didn't watch it, they'd lock him up for observation.

Sam cringed down and tried to shrink farther into himself. He looked at the laptop and realized the gig was up.

After taking a deep breath, he glanced up at his irate brother and shakily pulled his right hand across his face. "When a ghoul bites or scratches you…well, you know there's no cure. You've got enough stuff going on right now. I didn't want to burden you with that."

Dean sighed with gusto. He couldn't stay angry with his brother, not when he was laying there all pale and miserable. "Dude, you are a burden. You always have been and always will be, but that's what being an older brother means. It's my job."

Sam raised his head up and tilted it to the side, staring his brother down. He was angry that Dean wasn't taking him seriously. "Dude, here's another newsflash – I was just trying to protect you. You, of all people, should understand that brothers, younger or older, do that for each other. I'm not going to stop just because you say so and you're every bit the burden I am."

Dean's anger kicked back up at full throttle. He was in total disbelief and couldn't contain his reaction. "Jesus, Sam. You almost died! All because you didn't want to worry me? I thought we were more than brothers. We're partners and partners don't lie to each other. Especially not over something like an infected hand!" It was all he could do to keep himself from leaning over and smacking his brother.

There was no denying he was hurt that Sam hadn't confided in him. He'd thought they were done with keeping secrets from each other

Sam snorted, the snort briefly turning to a cough, before he reacted. "Partners? Apparently they do lie to each other. Let me refresh your memory. When Dad died you kept his final words from me for months. Oh, and let's not forget, you were going to keep your little deal to bring me back to life a secret. Maybe I learned from the master!" Sam's voice was ragged and his eyes gleamed with unshed tears.

The brothers were at an impasse.

Dean couldn't believe the underlying rage and hurt in Sam's accusations. Perhaps he'd known it all along but it took Sam's outburst to remind him. He'd been so busy trying to protect Sam, to keep him alive, he'd failed to trust him. It was a mistake he'd repeated often in the past but one he couldn't afford to make in the future. Without trust, the brothers had nothing.

He looked as his brother, watching his chest rapidly rise and fall in agitation. The brother who refused to look him in the eye. For once he couldn't read his brother and he was at a loss.

Sam was disgusted with himself. He hadn't meant to spew vitriol at his brother, the only living person who really loved him. He was just so frustrated with everything. He'd tried to talk to Dean in the past about his "destiny" but every time Sam had brought it up, his brother had brushed him aside. Dean was going to do whatever it took to save him from the Yellow Eye Demon and damn the consequences. He'd kept his word and saved Sam, but in the process he'd damned himself. Dean was going to hell if they couldn't figure a way out of his deal. The whole situation sucked.

And now Sam was harboring his own secret. Mary Winchester had known the Yellow Eyed Demon. He wasn't sure why he'd hidden that little nugget from Dean but his brother deserved to know the truth. Sam knew firsthand what it was like to be kept in the dark and didn't want to be responsible for doing the same thing to Dean.

It was time for the truth. But first he needed to make amends. He shouldn't have withheld information from Dean. It was stupid and wrong and he could have put Dean's life at risk. He'd somehow lost sight of his priority. Dean.

He heard his brother clear his throat but didn't want to lose his nerve and forged ahead.

"Bro, I'm sorry."

His eyes snapped up to look at Dean as both brothers spoke the exact same words at the exact same time.

There wasn't time to absorb or even acknowledge the gravity of the words before another word was dropped into the conversation.

"Jinx!"

Again, both brothers chimed in simultaneously.

It was immature and inappropriate and so needed at the moment. Deans' toothy smile was echoed in a show of Sam's dimples. A little humor went a long way toward breaking the ice.

There were so many things Sam wanted to say but his energy was flagging. He stifled a yawn under the watchful eye of his brother.

Dean felt a little remorse. Sam was recovering from some nasty infection and here they were, going at it like cats and dogs. He reached forward and nudged Sam's shoulder gently. "Why don't you close your eyes for a while and we can talk later. After I spring you from this place."

Sam threw his hand out and clasped Dean's hand briefly.

Later. There was so much to say and do but they would get to it later.

Finis

A/N 2: Okay, thursdaywench wanted a story that featured a scab on Sam's hand only they don't know where it came from and it starts to spread and cause more issues. I put my own twist on it, as usual, but do you think I pulled it off? Thank you for reading this fic!


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